


One True Love

by cumberbabeswillrise



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Multi, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, psychopathic violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbabeswillrise/pseuds/cumberbabeswillrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes back to Afghanistan after Sherlock's fall. He meets Kingsley O'Connor, who helps him move past his friend's death. He thinks he loves her, they've been together for almost two years. She loves him, too, in her own ways. She gives John a going away present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A new beginning. A new end.

The hot desert of Afghanistan surrounded him. The mountains around him made him feel exposed to nature. He lost himself inside them, not having to deal with his memories. John Watson welcomed the thick, hot air with a mixture of distaste and exhilaration. Though he hated the cold nights and completely opposite days, John happily ran from London.  
John had been standing in position for six hours, six long hours of operating on a young captain. He was finally stitching up the patient, who'd suffered a bombing. John had had to amputate his left leg and remove shrapnel from all over the body.  
After he sanitized the young man's wounds and prepared him to be moved to recovery, John removed his bloody scrubs and sanitized his hands. Sighing heavily, he knew he'd need to get home to his one room bunker. Signing out of the hospital, John put on his jacket then went outside. The desert became cold at night, giving everyone a sweet release from the sweltering hot day.  
John headed down the gravel road that led to the three hundred yards of bunkers. He was oddly happy to sleep on his hard bed, he could feel his eyes drooping from lack of sleep. He felt almost giddy as he slipped his key into the lock and opened the door. He smiled at the sight he found inside.  
Sitting on his bed was Lieutenant Colonel Kingsley O'Connor. Her long chestnut curls framed her heart shaped face. Her long tan legs were crossed, her toes barely touching the carpet below. She smiled at him, knowing he was quite happy to find her in her red lace bra and panties. Standing up, she walked toward him and closed the door behind him. Kingsley slipped his jacket off his shoulders then kissed him tenderly on the mouth.  
John kissed her back, one hand cupping her face, the other pulling her closer to him. Her hands hungrily pulled of his shirt, feeling the strong muscle hidden beneath it. Two years of rigorous exercises and drills had renewed John Watson's body into a lean, cut figure. John pulled Kingsley toward the bed, stripping his shoes and trousers as he went. Kingsley pushed John onto the bed, then slid her body on top of his, her hands in his hair. John ran his hands along her thighs and back, pulling her as close to him as possible. Stripping the rest of their clothes, they hungrily clung to each other. John gained the top position and spread her legs apart. He held her ample hips, his hands strong from training. He heard her gasp as he entered her, biting her lip with each thrust. Kingsley arched her back to him, offering herself completely and shamelessly to him. They both gave cries of pleasure as they climaxed simultaneously.  
Both breathing heavily, they later lay with each other, holding one another tight. The two didn't consider themselves a couple, yet they knew almost everything about each other. For a year and a half the two had presumed a sexual relationship, all the while remaining the closest of friends. She knew all about Sherlock Holmes, he knew all about her abusive childhood. At twenty eight years old, this was Kingsley's tenth year in the military. She was a child prodigy, graduating college at twelve. She was a legal studies major, she also had medical training. This was her last tour, and in three months she was becoming a detective for the Scotland Yard to help abuse victims like herself.  
John rubbed her back, making shapes between her shoulder blades. She rested her head on his chest, her feet playfully rubbing against his legs.  
“Three more months, John. Then we both get to go home.” She sighed, longing in her voice.  
“I might sign up again.” John whispered, not sure that he wanted to return to civilian life. He no longer had Sherlock there to keep him company. Two months after Sherlock's death, John signed up for a two year deployment to Afghanistan. He worked as a doctor, like he'd done before he met Sherlock.  
Her head snapped up. “Again? John, you could do so much better than this life.” She propped herself up on her elbows, her large brown eyes gazing at him with worry. “I know you don't want to go back without him, John. You can't punish yourself by staying here, possibly dying in the desert. You're a gifted doctor, you could become a surgeon at a hospital. I couldn't stand to see you throw away the potential you possess.”  
John smiled at her. She didn't understand that he just couldn't go back. He couldn't stand to sit in that flat, Sherlock's long couch sitting in front of him, with no Sherlock lounging on it. He was hollow without his flatmate, so hollow that only risking his life everyday seemed to fill that empty space. He always felt that, somehow, Sherlock would come back and save him.  
“It's too hard. There are too many memories there. I don't think I could handle it.” John kissed her on the forehead. “There's nothing left for me there anymore.”  
“What about Harriet? I know you two don't get along, but I'm positive you care for one another. She wouldn't want you to die out here.” Kingsley sat up on the bed, leaning against the head board. She curled the blanket around her tightly to cover her bare breasts.  
John scooted closer to her, curling his arm around her leg and resting his head on her lap. “Harriet cares for the bottle more than she cares for me. Look, London is a vast city filled with things that make my heart ache. If I went back there...” John sighed, holding her closer. “I couldn't bear to see everything he touched and saw knowing that he'll never do those things again.”  
Kingsley ran her fingers through his hair. She didn't want him to waste himself here, John knew it. He knew he could be helpful in some hospital in London, but he felt like he deserved to be here for his lack of courage. He couldn't stand up to Sherlock and force him back onto the rooftop. He hadn't been smart enough to stop Moriarty before he hurt all of those people. This was where he should die, all alone in this angry desert.  
“I bet that he would be disappointed at your choice.” Kingsley whispered as she traced her fingers along his neck and played with his dog tags, making him shiver. “Sherlock Holmes knew you deserved more than this. He knew that you could do so much more, John. If he didn't, do you really think he'd have asked you to be his assistant? To be his flatmate? Called you his friend? If you think that you're condemned to this life because Sherlock would think so, you are delusional. Though I've never met him, I think Sherlock Holmes would want you to make some use of what he's taught you. But hey, what do I know? I'm only a genius with an IQ of a hundred and ninety-three.” She often used that line on him, her version of 'woman's intuition'.  
John looked up at her. She was the only one who still cared for him, the only one he still cared for. Kingsley was his rock, the only thing that had kept him sane these past two years. She not only satisfied his primal needs, but his emotional ones. She understood him more than he could have ever asked her to. She listened, and she never criticized. They'd never stated that they were in love or anything near it, but they definitely did love each other. They had a deep understanding of one another. It was a respectable relationship, one that never pried or became strained. They did argue sometimes, but they quickly got over it. They never stayed angry at each other, and they never said anything but the truth to one another.  
“You're probably right. How could I come back from this, though? I'm so used to these ugly walls and the sand storms. I don't know how I would react to London.” John sat up and grabbed her hand in his.  
“You came back before. You escaped before.” She gripped his hand tightly, not wanting him to succumb to a life of blood and bullets.  
“And I returned to Afghanistan as soon as things became difficult.”  
Kingsley growled, “You came back because you're a wanker who thinks the worst of himself. If anything, please promise me you won't come back here.” John looked at her sadly. She clapped a hand over his mouth before he could say a word. “No, you can't come back. You will not perish here, John. I won't allow it.” She stated, knowing she couldn't forcefully stop him, but trying anyway. “If not for me, then for him, John. He wouldn't want this, not for you. Don't think for a second that Sherlock would want you to harm yourself in this way.”  
“It's not about what Sherlock wants anymore, it's about what I want. I think I will do very well he-” John began, but Kingsley interrupted him by forcefully kissing his mouth.  
“We both know very well that this is about him... But it's not what he'd want.” She whispered as she pulled away. Kingsley's gaze pierced him deeply, the fear for him in her eyes was heart wrenching. She kissed him again, more passionately this time. He pulled her close to him, his hands resting on her hips and holding her tight. He didn't want to let her go. He wanted to stay there, in that room, forever. With her.  
Kingsley left just before the sun came up to shower and ready herself for the day. John was left to his thoughts. Two years had passed since Sherlock had jumped off St. Bart's hospital. John felt alone, like Sherlock had somehow completed him. He curled around the pillow and drank in Kingsley's scent. She always smelled of vanilla and hazelnuts. John groaned, wishing everything would just work itself out.  
London scared him. Going back to 221B Baker Street scared him. Driving anywhere near St. Bartholomew's hospital terrified him. He didn't want the nightmares to return. He didn't want to see Sherlock falling through the air, the sickening crunch of him hitting the pavement. John didn't want to see Sherlock surrounded by a pool of blood, or the glazed over green-blue eyes. For months after the suicide, every time he closed his eyes John saw his friend die. He replayed that conversation in his mind thousands of times, trying to figure out what he could have done or said differently. Feeling the knot in his chest begin to wind up tighter, John abandoned thinking for the night and attempted to shut off his brain.  
By 0430, John gave up on sleep. Instead, he got dressed and headed to the gym facilities. He worked out until 0530, then came home and took a shower. By 0600, he was in the hospital, seeing to his patients. That was his routine most mornings, he rarely varied from it. He followed his routine up until the day his tour was over.  
The night before they both left, Kingsley came over one last time. She brought wine she'd been sent as a gift. She and John spent the night having sex and talking, neither of them wanting to face the inevitable. They avoided speaking of leaving, they didn't want to spoil the evening. Eventually, they lay in the bed, facing one another, their touches becoming softer the more tired they became. John held Kingsley close, breathing as much of her in as possible. Both of them would be living in London, but they hadn't spoken of resuming their relationship there.  
“John?” Kingsley whispered, her head resting against his chest. She sounded frightened.  
“Yes, love?” John whispered back, kissing her head.  
“What are we doing?”  
“I believe we're spooning, dear.”  
She laughed and pushed his chest, leaning back to look at him. “I mean, what are we doing? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy our sexual rendezvous and long nights. You know everything about me, and I, you. Tomorrow we leave for London. What happens then?”  
“We do whatever we happen to do, Kingsley. I love being around you, being with you. What do you want to happen in London?” John looked at her. She was beautiful. The way her curls framed her face made her look like an angel. Kingsley made John feel like he mattered, the way she looked after him like she was his mother. Her smile was enough to make him feel better, no matter how shitty his day had been.  
“Whatever makes you happy. That's what I want.”  
“You make me happy.”  
John smiled as he saw the red creep up her face. She snuggled closer to his chest and closed her eyes. After about ten minutes, John heard her breathing slow and her chest began moving rhythmically.  
John soon fell asleep, too. He didn't even dream that night, which was a nice going away present from Afghanistan.  
The next morning John, Kingsley, and a hundred other soldiers boarded two buses. The buses drove them to an airport just outside of Afghanistan. Kingsley fell asleep on the ride, her head resting on John's shoulder. John watched the desert and mountains rush past him. He hoped he'd never have to come back here again, but was sure he might. He was positive he might be compelled to come back. John was nervous to return to London. He wasn't sure if London would welcome him back the way it had before. He caught his last glances of the desert, then woke Kingsley as they approached the airport. She groggily rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and followed him off the bus. She again fell asleep on the airplane, making John wonder how some one could sleep so much. At the base camp, Kingsley slept as much as she could. Instead of eating lunch, she took a nap in her bunker. When she wasn't with John or off the clock, she went to bed. No wonder she was always full of energy.  
After the flight, John and Kingsley awkwardly said goodbye. He kissed her hard on the lips as she gave him a note with a phone number to contact her with. After he showed her to a cab, he watched her drive away. John wasn't sure how he felt about her leaving him. He'd never truly loved a woman and he wasn't sure how it felt. The hollow feeling he felt watching her leave made him think that that was how it felt.


	2. He's back.

John climbed into a cab and watched London go by. He gazed out the window at the tall, ornate buildings. Their intricate, traditional designs combining with the new age architecture. As he neared 221B, he couldn't help but mentally map out the way to the flat. John almost felt as though he'd never left, the streets looked too familiar. Nothing seemed to have changed, physically, that is. John knew London hadn't been the same since Sherlock's death. The press had definitely had a field day with Sherlock. He went from one of London's favorite to a fake in minutes.  
Slowly, John exited the cab, and retrieving his bags from the trunk, the first thing he did was check the mailbox. He flipped through the mail as he ascended the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him at the top. She hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. They spoke for a few moments, then she hastily told him she had to leave for the grocery store.  
John bid her goodbye then unlocked the door to his flat. He opened the door and made his way to the kitchen, his eyes on the note Kingsley gave him.  
 _Call any time, I assure you I won't be busy._  
 _-Kingsley XXXX_  
He prepared a pot of coffee, then walked to his bedroom to deposit his bags. He took in the sight of his room. It hadn't changed a bit. Mrs. Hudson had dusted and cleaned, making sure nothing dirtied. He changed into a pair of trousers and a black t-shirt.  
John heard the coffee ding and made for the kitchen. As he rounded the entryway, he stopped dead in his tracks. Pouring coffee into two cups was a tall man with dark, curly hair. His long pale fingers curled around the mug, his purple shirt sleeve clipped tightly around an equally pale wrist. As he turned around he smiled at John.  
“Hello, John. Coffee?” Sherlock Holmes handed the mug to him, his blue-green eyes glittering.  
“Wha-how? Why? I saw you... saw you dead. On the pavement. The blood...” John put the cup down on the table and ran his hands through his hair. He looked at Sherlock, his mind trying to put the pieces together. It wasn't possible. He felt his cold hands, made sure there was no pulse. “You bastard!” He yelled, then punched Sherlock in the face.  
Sherlock recovered quickly, blinking his eyes to satiate the pain. He rubbed his nose and looked at John.  
“It was a trick. Not that hard, really. As to why, well, that's a long story.” John looked at him, obviously wanting an explanation. He tapped his shoe for good measure.  
Sherlock smiled at that, an amused look playing on his bleeding face. “It was either I commit suicide, or Moriarty kills you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Which do you think I would prefer? Naturally, I didn't believe he'd leave you alone, so I faked my death. Once I made sure that Moriarty was telling the truth, I came back, but you'd already left.” His eyes downcast, Sherlock sipped his coffee.  
“I asked Mycroft to bring you back but the deployment had already been validated. He told me there was no way he could bring you back and even if he could he wouldn't. Said it would do you good to get away from this for a while.” Sherlock mimicked Mycroft's voice distastefully. John could tell he was telling the truth, yet he couldn't help being angry at his friend. He honestly felt sorry for this man.  
Sherlock had lost at the least twenty pounds, he looked dreadful. He'd already been thin in the first place. He was now borderline emaciated. There were bags under his eyes, not unlike John's. His skin was a wan, waxy color, even more pale than before. His dark curls were no longer bouncy and full of life, they now hung in his face, as though he'd neglected to get a haircut since John had left. Now, looking at Sherlock, John began to feel happiness flow through him. He laughed, almost hysterically, then reached out and touched the marble-like face. Sherlock looked nervous, like he thought John was going to hit him again. John pulled his best friend into a hug and held him tight. He smiled to himself when he felt Sherlock's wiry arms encircle him.  
“Oh! You two made nice.” Mrs. Hudson clapped as she walked into the kitchen. The two men broke from their awkward embrace and smiled at each other. “There's a package addressed to you two downstairs. It's rather large, I'm sure it'll take the both of you to carry it up the stairs.”  
John and Sherlock exchanged looks, then descended the stairs. Downstairs a man in a delivery uniform stood with a clipboard. His face was covered by a hat and he handed the clipboard immediately to Sherlock, then to John. With a grunt of thanks, he turned and headed back to his truck. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and watched him drive away, then turned his attention to the box.  
The box was taller than Sherlock. The wood was an exact rectangle, John and Sherlock's names painted carefully on the front in bold black letters. The word 'o Conchobhair' was written underneath it. Sherlock circled the box like a lion stalking prey. He smelt the lettering on the box, then rubbed his hand along it.  
“What are you doing?” John asked, not really wanting to know the answer.  
“This box is the perfect height and width to fit an average sized man inside. I don't smell blood or decay, so it might be sealed beneath the wood. Do we have a crowbar?” Sherlock stated, like it was normal to suspect a package had a body inside. John nodded, then went upstairs to find the tool in question. John located the crowbar and came downstairs. Sherlock was tapping the box tentatively. John handed him the crowbar, then stepped back to let him do his work.  
It was amusing, really, to watch Sherlock work. He tapped the box with his crowbar, either harder or softer, depending on something only he knew. He smelt it, scratched it, ran his fingers along it and even spit on it. When he was finally finished, he handed the crowbar to John and signaled him to open it. Giving Sherlock a look, John stepped forward and pried open the box. There was a a silver aluminum box inside, it fit snugly inside the other. Sherlock began his process again with the new box, making John wait another ten minutes while he examined it. Sherlock opened the new box. He and John immediately began gagging.  
Inside was the body of a man. The man was wearing a suit, oxford shoes and a scarf. His body was surrounded by hay, but that's not what triggered the men's gag reflexes. His clothes were covered in blood and his internal organs were pulled out of his wounds and littered around his body. Blood was pooled on his chest and abdomen. The hay had acted as a sponge, soaking up most of the blood that had flowed over his torso.  
There was a small box near the man's feet. Sherlock quickly ran upstairs and grabbed some Latex gloves. He handed a pair to John and knelt down next to the crate. He opened the small box and pulled out an envelope. He carefully opened it and extracted an envelope. Sherlock walked over to John and read it with him.  
 _Hello Mr. Holmes & Mr. Watson,_  
 _We have a few mutual friends. One has told me you are the best at what you do. I've presented you with a body, a challenge you might say. I expect you to find me, the murderer. James often told me of your skills. He was amazed by you, talked of you as if you were his celebrity crush. I, however, am not as impressed. I'd like you to prove yourself to me, if you will. I'm sure this man would be grateful to you for finding me. Can you find me, Mr. Holmes? Now that you have your dear Watson back, I'm sure you could manage to scrounge up something. Have you ever longed for the kiss of a woman, Mr. Holmes? I've no doubt you've experienced one. But I also have no doubt that it's been quite some time. I know you, Mr. Holmes, just as I know you, Mr. Watson. Never underestimate the power of knowledge, boys. XXXX_  
 _o Conchobhair_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he read the letter.  
“We need to call Lestrade. We need Molly to conduct an autopsy and check the box and body for chemicals.” Sherlock checked them off on his fingers. “This letter's from a woman, John.”  
“How on earth could you tell that?” John eyed the letter, the writing looked familiar to him, but he couldn't place it.  
“The writing. It's feminine. Also, the flirting in the text. It's definitely taunting, but she's also flirting at the same time. Women don't normally commit these gruesome of crimes, they usually go with poison or a gun. This looks like it was done crudely with a knife of some sort. She probably supervised as they tortured this man and then expelled his organs. It's strange, though. They left the organs attached to the body instead of cutting them out. Bruising indicates he was alive when they did this to him.” Sherlock calmly declared as he looked from the body to John.  
“What difference does it make if it's a woman or a man?” John asked, knowing Sherlock would think it was a stupid question.  
“It doesn't, yet it does. If it's a woman then she is probably an international criminal, mastermind and/or psychopath. Who are our mutual friends? The letter says James, but who is the other one?”  
“Maybe James stands for Jim? Moriarty's alive?” John pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd only been home for an hour and his life was already becoming hectic.  
“Maybe. It seems he told this woman about me. Maybe she was his lover... I would’ve sworn Moriarty was asexual. Have you ever heard of this word? o Conchobhair? The kiss of a woman...” Sherlock trailed off, the pulled his phone out of his pocket. John heard him tell Lestrade of his findings and to get there right away.  
When the police arrived, Sherlock told them what happened and informed them he would be waiting for the body at St. Bart's. John felt panic when he heard they were going to that hospital. Even though he knew Sherlock was alive, it still terrified him to go to the place where he'd supposedly died.  
John followed Sherlock into a cab, grateful to get away from the smell of decay.  
“He's been dead for twelve hours. Looks like whoever did killed him wanted him to be in rigor mortise when we found him. They've left many clues.”  
“How so? Besides the letter I didn't see any clues.”  
Sherlock gave him an exasperated look. Oh, it was good to be back again. “The paper's an Irish brand, I could tell by the smell. There was lipstick on the man's mouth, no, no, don't look at me like that. He didn't put it on, he was kissed by someone wearing it. He also smelled of vanilla and hazelnuts, so he was definitely with a woman when he was killed. There were ten organs extracted from his body. His head and scrotum, I'm guessing, are the last two organs. His left hand was balled into a fist, but his right hand was pointing at the seventh organ. I'm guessing we have until five tomorrow to solve this before there's another body.” When Sherlock spoke of hazelnuts and vanilla, John's mind drifted to Kingsley. Sherlock went on anyway.  
“John. Are you even listening to me?” Sherlock asked, shaking his arm. John turned to look at him and noticed that they were at St. Bart's.  
“No, sorry, I wasn't. Is Molly still here?”  
“Yes. She still works in the morgue.” Sherlock eyed him, then turned on his heel and walked into the hospital. John followed him, prying his eyes from the spot where Sherlock fell.  
“John!” Molly smiled when she saw him. She gave him an awkward hug, then made her way toward the body. “They just brought him in, I haven't gotten to do an autopsy. I still have to sterilize. I did notice something, though.” She looked at them, as if expecting them to ask what she found. When she realized they weren't going to say anything, she went on. “There's lipstick on his mouth. Not just any lipstick, though. It's a new brand that's just hit the market. It's the only lipstick that is the exact same color of blood. It isn't terribly expensive but I only personally know of one person who wears it. I gave it to her as a birthday present a few months ago. She could tell you more about it.”  
“Why give her that shade of lipstick?” John asked.  
“She loves to wear red lipstick. She's been in the military for the past ten years and she's only been able to wear it while on leave. She's always complained that she couldn’t find the perfect red color, so I bought this one for her.”  
“Ah, I see.”  
“We'll need this friend's name.” Sherlock informed her.  
“Of course, I'll write it down. I have to get on with the autopsy now, you two will have to leave.” Molly apologized, then wrote down her friend's name and handed it to Sherlock.  
Lestrade met them outside of autopsy. “Victim's name is Michael Downer. He's an international arms dealer. Been on Europe's most wanted list for ten years. He's suspected of dozens of murders in Ireland and the UK. Ironically, the way he was killed was his preferred torture method. He'd cut open his victims and pull out organs until they cracked. They usually cracked as soon as he took the knife to them, however. Who ever did this tortured him just to torture him.”  
Sherlock's eyes lit up with this information. “Ireland, you say? Everything seems to revolve back to them...”  
“You think the Irish have something to do with this?” John asked. He'd never thought of the Irish as being into games such as this.  
“No, no, no. I think an Irishwoman had something to do with this, and she wants us to know who she is. She's given us many clues that relate to Ireland, or the Irish. The word o Conchobhair must be Irish.”  
“ o Conchobhair? That's a last name. Means O'Connor, also means 'Patron of Warriors.' I had to write a report on Irish names and genealogy in school, it was bloody terrible.”  
“I know someone with the last name O'Connor. I served with her in Afghanistan.” John piped up.  
“The name Molly gave me is Kingsley O'Connor.” Sherlock turned to look at him, giving him the piece of paper.  
John felt his heart drop. If Kingsley was the murderer, that meant she only slept with him to gain intel. The past two years had been a lie, and he'd helped her get to Sherlock. John felt so stupid! He let someone in, and she betrayed him.  
“That's her.” John croaked. Sherlock eyed him, confused.  
“How much do you know about her?” Sherlock inquired.  
“Everything... Or I thought I knew everything.”  
“Were you close?”  
“Well, yeah. We slept together four times a week for the past year and a half.” John gave Sherlock an embarrassed look. He'd never talked about his sex life to his friend.  
“Oh.” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. “John, she might not be the killer. This could be a way for the real killer to get in our heads.”  
“Probably not. I told her everything about you, Sherlock. About you, myself, Lestrade and Molly. All of you. She's smart. She has an IQ of one hundred and ninety three, and she graduated high school when she was twelve. She has medical training. She fits the profile.” John spoke slowly, his head reeling.  
“Let's go visit her.” Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder. Lestrade gave them an exasperated look, then pulled some Tums out of his jacket pocket. Popping a few, he walked away from them, shaking his head.  
John found a cab with Sherlock and they drove to Kingsley's house. John grew increasingly nervous as they arrived. Sherlock rang the doorbell, then knocked on the door. John didn't expect what he saw.


	3. He's back... too.

In front of them was Jim Moriarty. His large brown eyes had an amused look to them. He smiled broadly at them, then gave them awkward hugs.  
“Hello, Sherlock. I see you survived the fall.”  
Sherlock stiffened when he saw Moriarty. “Yes. I see you managed to mess with us even more.”  
“Actually, no. My, uh... employer is the one who did this.” Moriarty grinned at them, then motioned for them to follow him up the stairs.  
“Ms. O'Connor!” Moriarty called to the next room. He showed them to the sitting room, then poured them all a cup of tea. They were sitting in a large room with dark red walls. There were bookcases on two of the walls, only two were colored. There was a piano in the far corner. Four chairs sat in the room, each facing toward a circular coffee table. Moriarty smiled at them maliciously until Kingsley entered the room, then put on a blank face and ignored them.  
Kingsley looked completely different than she had twelve hours ago. The last time John had seen her she'd been wearing her commando khaki pants and camouflage green t-shirt. Now, she wore high-waist black jeans tucked into black lace combat boots. She donned a Rolling Stones tank tucked into her jeans. John had never seen her in civilian clothes. She smiled at John and Sherlock.  
“John,” She walked forward then gave him a kiss on the cheek. She turned and gave Sherlock one, too. Sherlock looked at her. John would have called him captivated, but John didn't know how that would look on Sherlock's face.  
“You're Sherlock Holmes?” Kingsley asked him.  
“Y-yes.” Sherlock stuttered.  
Kingsley smiled at him, then slapped him. When Sherlock recovered from it she smiled again. “That's for your dear friend's pain and suffering.” Then sat down in a chair. John noticed she was wearing the blood red lipstick.  
“You mean the pain and suffering you caused?” Sherlock asked. “You're Moriarty's employer, the one who set him loose on us.”  
“Yes I'm his employer, but I didn't send him to you. I did ask him to check you out, he ended up too close for comfort. He begged me to let him pursue you. I didn't let him, initially, but I noticed he was quite smitten with you. I told him to dispose of you, which he neglected to do.” Kingsley shot Jim a look, who terrifyingly looked away from her. “I allowed him to go back to you. His murder trial brought in a lot of money. People who wanted to hire him out. I again told him to dispose of you, which he again failed to do. I wanted to see what all of the fuss was about.”  
“Why go to Afghanistan, then?” Sherlock leaned forward, setting the tea cup down. “Why target John, I didn't exactly hide from you people.”  
“I've been in the military for ten years, Mr. Holmes. Long before I even knew your name. I infiltrated the British Army and I've learned many, many things in my time. I've got many businesses and hobbies. When I heard that John had enlisted again, I wanted to check him out, too. He's very charming, you know. You're lucky to have him.”  
“Okay, I understand wanting information, but sleeping with him? No offense, John, but why?”  
Kingsley merely smiled. “A girl's got needs.”  
“Sex is purely an impulse in the brain, not a necessary action.”  
“Yes, I know. But the thing is, Sherlock.” She leaned in toward him. “I enjoy it. John's a very good lover. Two years is a long time to go without sex. You know how that feels, don't you Mr. Holmes? Jim calls you The Virgin, but we both know that's not quite true.” She giggled softly. “You're emotionally distant, or you like to think you are. Even you can't deny that you've enjoyed the touch of a woman, Mr. Holmes.”  
“What do my sexual preferences have to do with this?”  
“Nothing. I just like to talk. What did you find out about the body?” She asked. John was starting to feel dizzy. His head hurt. He didn't like seeing Kingsley this way, he didn't like feeling betrayed. He'd never seen Kingsley as a psychopathic murderer, or a criminal mastermind. He'd always seen her as sweet, sarcastic and smart. She'd never been anything but kind to him. She'd never pried for information or seemed pushy. She'd always encouraged him. What did he miss?  
“Michael Downer was tortured before he died. His wasn't restrained or there would have been marks on his wrists. He was probably drugged with a paralytic. Someone cut him open and pulled his organs out, then arranged them to look like a clock. Which was his preferred method of torture. Maybe you're eliminating competition. His left hand was set in a fist, the other pointing at the seventh organ. I figured it was a sign that we had until seven o'clock to figure out who murdered him. You probably had Jim cut him open00 for you, instead of getting your hands dirty. The lipstick is your calling card. You used Irish hints throughout the entire box. The paper, the wood, the name. You led us right to you, that's what I can't figure out.” Sherlock had the gleam in his eye he always got when he was on a roll. “Why lead us to you so you can be arrested? Unless you know you aren't going to be arrested. You could've used Jim here to taunt us again, but you revealed yourself. You're sick. Dying, perhaps?”  
Kingsley bit her cheek and smiled at him. “You're right about almost everything, Mr. Holmes. The seventh organ was an indicator. Seven months, that's all I'll tell you now. The lipstick is, in fact, my calling card. Yet it holds a higher purpose. It's poison, a paralytic. Once it makes contact with human skin it slowly begins to work into your system.” She motioned toward the tea they'd all been drinking. “The tea holds another poison, one that will in a few minutes render you unconscious. I am sick, Mr. Holmes, in more ways than one. Sleep well, you two.”  
John tore his eyes from Kingsley to look at Sherlock, who was pinching the bridge of his nose. He was dizzy, too. John saw spots begin to cloud his vision, instead of trying to fight it, he let the darkness take hold of him.


	4. Honey, the kids will be alright.

When John awoke, Kingsley was sitting in front of him. They were no longer in her sitting room, they were now on some sort of stage. John could see the overhead lights and the red curtain in the corner of his eye.  
Kingsley put her hands on his face and smiled at him. She'd changed into a pair of black shorts and a Led Zeppelin tee. Her long tan legs were crossed and her feet were bare. John went to move his hands to her face when he realized he was bound by ropes.  
“Why?” He croaked.  
“It hasn't anything to do with you, darling. It's my passion, of sorts.”  
“Two years...” John glared at her.  
“It wasn't just because of Sherlock, John. I honestly enjoy your company. Don't be discouraged, John. Everything I told you was true. I've never lied to you a day in my life.” She kissed him on the cheek, then stood up. Kingsley walked over to Sherlock, who was slumped over in his chair. She smacked him on the back of the head.  
“I know you're awake, Sherlock. Don't play possum with me.” Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at her. “You're breathing changes when you wake up, no matter how much you train your eyes and ears to wake up first. Nice try, though.”  
“Why'd you move us?”  
“Molly gave you my name. Lestrade saw it, no doubt. I don't want to hurt Molly, so I moved you for now.”  
“So you have feelings?”  
Kingsley smiled at him. “No one is truly emotionless. It takes emotion to do something like that to Michael Downer. Not that I cared for him, I cared for what he could do for me. Mike helped me get my arms business off the ground. I didn't kill him because he was competition, Sherlock. It's about sending a message.”  
Sherlock looked horrified, John was sure he looked the same. “You did that to him? You cut him open?”  
“Of course. Jim hasn't the stomach for blood. He prefers bombs and snipers and such. Besides, it brings a sort of... pleasure to do the job yourself.” Kingsley ran a hand through her hair and moved her chair between the two, facing them.  
Moriarty entered through stage left, a chair in his hand. He sat an arm's length away from Kingsley, then pulled out his cell phone and began to text. He still wore his trademark suit, but somehow he looked scraggly. He wasn't the same jovial Moriarty they'd known two years ago.  
“He's afraid of you.” Sherlock stated flatly. Moriarty's text speed faltered for a moment, then gained momentum again when Kingsley glanced at him.  
“Yes. I know. I like it that way. You saw what I did to Mike Downer, imagine what I could do to him with a bit more creativity.” John saw Moriarty pale, and his text speed falter again. “Isn't that right, Jim?” Moriarty jumped, almost dropping his cell phone.  
“Y-yes madam.”  
“You said you're sick. How are you sick?” John asked, not liking seeing Moriarty to nervous.  
Kingsley turned to him, her expression soft. “You can't tell? I brutally murdered a man, and many more that you don't even know about. You think I was just a Lieutenant Colonel for the army, John? I was a sniper, and assassin, and a damn good one too. I was also freelance. I've evaded the police for ten years, John. The only reason you found me is because I wanted you to. I could have gone on for the rest of my life.”  
“You're a psychopath. You're insane. You and Jim are perfect for each other.” John spat. He didn't care for her excuses or her explanations. He didn't want to look at her perfect curls, or her long tan legs. He just wanted her to go away so he could forget about her.  
“Yes. I am.” She sadly looked away. She had her arm curled around her stomach. Kingsley put a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. She sat back in her chair and breathed deeply.  
“Seven months.” John whispered. It all clicked now. “You're pregnant and you have seven months to go. Pregnant with my child.” John stopped, eyes wide. He'd impregnated a psychopath.  
“Children. Two.” Kingsley opened her eyes and looked at John, Sherlock forgotten. “I can't raise a child, John. I don't trust myself. I'm going away, and I'm not coming back.”  
“Why tell me that you're pregnant in such a way?” John asked incredulously.  
“Just because I'm incapacitated doesn't mean I can't have my fun. Don't worry about the poison in the lipstick. It doesn't work on me, a small coat of clear gel underneath prevents contact with my skin.” Kingsley lifted up her t-shirt and pulled out a wire. “That's my confession. Give this to the police. Jim you may leave. You know where to find the money.” Moriarty nodded and scurried off of the stage.  
“Why did you tape yourself?” John asked.  
Kingsley switched the wire off. “I've got a plan, John. This is going to put me away for a very long time. The FBI has been looking for me for a long time, they just never knew my name. I'm wanted in dozens of countries, John. Now that they know who I am, what I've done, they'll have a field day over me.”  
“I don't understand.” John shook his head.  
“I'm a psychopath, remember? You'll never know.” Kingsley set the wire on John's lap. “See you later, darling.” She kissed him on the cheek and followed Moriarty. John looked at Sherlock, who was staring at him.  
“I'm sorry, John. I really didn't see that coming.” Sherlock struggled against his binds. After a few moments, he pulled his arms free. After untying his legs, Sherlock untied John. John didn't move, just put his head in his hands.  
“John we need to leave, they're getting away.”  
“Let them go.” John sighed and looked up at Sherlock. “What will she do with the children?”  
For the first time, Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words. “I-I don't know. She didn't seem to want to hurt them. Let's go, John.” Sherlock pulled John to his feet. They maneuvered their way out of the theater to find police cars surrounding them. They put up their hands as Lestrade walked toward them.  
“Put your hands down, boys. We've got them both. Moriarty and Ms. O'Connor are in custody. They didn't even fight. Moriarty had a suitcase full of fifty pound notes when he came out. Didn't run, just handed it to me and told me to give it to you, John.” Lestrade gave a motion with his hand. “Of course, we can't give you the money until we verify that it wasn't stolen or fake. What's that?” He pointed to the wire in John's hand.  
“A wire. Kingsley was wearing it. She told me to give it to you.” John handed it to him. “She's pregnant, Lestrade. See that she's taken care of.”  
Lestrade gave him a look, them popped some Tums. “Oh, you two know how to pick 'em.” He said, pinching his nose, referring to Irene Adler.  
Sherlock laughed, surprisingly, so did John. They answered all of Lestrade's questions about what had happened to them that day, then got some cream for their rope burns. The two men left the theater and returned to 221B Baker street.

“She wanted to be arrested.” Sherlock stated later, as John was dozing in his chair.  
“What?” John asked, not liking being roused from sleep.  
“She wanted to be arrested. That way she gets good prenatal care. Once she's healed, she's going to escape, John. She's going to leave the children behind.” Sherlock walked over to kneel down in front of John's chair. “Are you going to take them or leave them in foster care?”  
John hadn't thought about that. He wasn't sure he wanted the children. “What if they turn out like her?”  
“A psychopath isn't born, John, they're made. Something happened to her as a child that made her take out her frustrations on people. She was played, so now she plays other people. Those children will turn out however you raise them. She's not completely cold, John. She obviously cares for you and the children. If not, she would have killed you and terminated her pregnancy. She hasn't. She gave herself up so her children could receive the best medical care.”  
“I'm not sure I even want kids. Sherlock, I didn't exactly have great parents.”  
“So?”  
“I don't have anything to go on. They didn't give pass on any techniques.” John stated, not knowing if he wanted to talk about his childhood.  
“But you know what they did wrong, right?” Sherlock asked.  
“Well, yeah. It's not hard to differentiate.” John didn't know where this was going.  
“You'll do great. You know right from wrong and frankly, you're the bravest man I know. It takes bravery to take on two children and I know you can do it. Don't let her scare you away from your children, John. She's practically begging you to take them, anyway.”  
“She had an abusive childhood. She's got cigarette burns on her arms and back. She's got other scars, too. She's made sure that every wound her father gave her healed well so that she didn't get many scars. You can see them if you look hard enough, but they're hardly visible unless you look for them.” John looked at his hands. “The things her father did to her are very similar to the things mine did to me. I didn't turn into a psychopath.”  
Sherlock's gaze faltered. “Oh. John, I didn't know.” Sherlock stood up and put a hand on John's shoulder. “I think she turned into one because her mind matured a lot faster than most people's. She graduated college at twelve. Can you imagine? The stress of college, puberty and abuse? That's a lot of stress to put on a growing teenage girl. She used her brain to metaphorically get back at the abuser. Achieved her law degree and medical training. She joined the military and gained intel she could use against people. She couldn't defend herself as a child, now she's defending herself as an adult. She's abusing abusers. She said she was an assassin for the military, correct? She took orders from officers to kill people. Maybe that sent her over the edge.”


	5. Up coming fatherhood.

John moped around for a few weeks after that. He didn't speak to anyone, not even Sherlock. His nightmares returned, this time Kingsley dominated them. John saw her kill Sherlock, Molly and two sandy-haired children over and over again for weeks. Sherlock attempted many times to talk to him, but John just ignored him. After two months, John told Sherlock he wanted to see Kingsley.  
After some convincing, Lestrade agreed, on the condition he'd get Kingsley to confess to her father's murder. Lestrade gave John the file.  
Lochlan O'Connor had been a colonel in the military for thirty years. A well-known hard ass, he'd had some of the best platoons in the country during his long career. He'd married Catherine Daniels, who gave birth to Kingsley, dying in the process. Kingsley had been in and out of the hospital growing up. Every time her father was on leave she showed up with some new injury. There were pictures of young Kingsley, bruises covering her angelic face. She'd broken both her arms twice and her leg once. When she graduated college she dropped off the grid. No known address or place of work. She attended school during the day but no one knew where she went at night.  
Lochlan was murdered when Kingsley was sixteen. She'd just gotten her law degree. Her father was found in an alley behind a local strip club. His head was bashed in and he'd been stabbed multiple times. Kingsley had been questioned, she told the detectives she'd been studying at the library. Her alibi checked out and the case went unsolved.  
Kingsley finally resurfaced when she was eighteen. She joined the military and quickly climbed ranks. She had a distinguished career and no criminal history. There was no evidence that she had any mental illness. The only indicator of her having any psychopathic symptoms was having an extremely high IQ.  
“She's clean as a whistle. The only thing they have on her is motive.” Sherlock observed when he read the case file. “He beat her up pretty badly.”  
After reading the case file, John wasn't sure if he wanted to talk to Kingsley anymore. John had received a picture of a sonogram in the mail from Kingsley. She hadn't talked of anything in the letter besides the pregnancy.  
“Should I go?”  
“She'd definitely tell you, if anyone. She probably wants to see you.” Sherlock told him as a matter-of-fact-like.  
John begrudgingly followed Sherlock to the maximum security prison where Kingsley was being held. After over a half hour of security checks, John was finally led to the interrogation room. Lestrade was already there with Sally Donovan. He greeted them stoically and turned back toward the two way glass. Kingsley sat with her hands folded around her stomach, which was larger than it had been the last time John had seen her. She looked like she had a soccer ball underneath her orange prison jumpsuit.  
A man in a suit sat in front of her, asking her questions. He uttered a stream of curse words every time she gave him a sarcastic response.  
“Did you kill your father?” The American FBI agent asked.  
“Ask him.”  
“Fuck, O'Connor. I can't, he's dead. You killed him, right?”  
“Fuck, Winslow.” She mimicked him. “Maybe you should call the Doctor and have him take you back in time. Maybe you can stop him from getting his head bashed in.”  
Winslow obviously didn't understand the Doctor Who reference. “Is the Doctor in your head? Did he tell you to kill Colonel O'Connor?”  
Kingsley gave him a look and leaned forward. “I may have problems, but I'm not schizophrenic, Winslow. Maybe you should pay attention to your surroundings. Doctor Who is all around London, dumb ass.”  
Winslow slammed his fist on the table, making Kingsley wrap her hands protectively around her large stomach. “Let's see how funny you are when you're doing fifty to life, young lady.”  
Kingsley raised her eyebrows, obviously amused. “What makes you think this prison can hold me, Special Agent?”  
“Are you indicating that you know how to escape?”  
“See, I'd only call it escaping if it was a challenge. Let's call it... exiting the building. If I wasn't indisposed, I'd have already left with my colleague, Mr. Moriarty. Whom I'm sure you're torturing as we speak.” She smiled at him. “I was told John was coming to see me today, am I to be disappointed?”  
Winslow's nostrils flared. “You'll never see the your children or the light of day if I can help it. But yes, John is here to see you. I'll leave you to it.”  
Winslow turned around and left the room, fuming. He glared at John and Sherlock. “She's a real bitch. I wouldn't hold out on too much hope, if I were you.”  
John put his hand on the taller man's chest. “You don't call a woman a bitch, agent. I don't care if you do that in America, but we in England don't refer to women as 'bitches'.”  
Winslow cocked his head at John, his nostrils still flaring. “Don't touch me again, or you'll regret it.”  
John dismissed him and entered the interrogation room, Sherlock following him closely. Kingsley sat up when she saw John, then looked disappointed when she saw Sherlock.  
“You brought your lap dog?” She frowned.  
“I can leave, if you like.” Sherlock told her. Kingsley narrowed her eyes at him.  
“You can stay. For now.”  
“Kingsley, I'm going ask you a question and I'm only going to ask it once.” John set his hands on the table. “Did you kill Lochlan O'Connor?”  
Kingsley's gaze hit him hard. Her dark brown eyes were full of worry. “Yes.” She stated flatly. John vaguely heard Winslow yell in frustration.  
“Why?”  
“You've obviously read the file. You know why.”  
“I need you to tell me, though. I need to hear it from you.” John knitted his fingers together.  
Kingsley sighed, then leaned forward. “He beat me, raped me and berated me. Naturally, I wanted revenge.”  
“Okay. How come you never reported abuse? You were inside the statute of limitations.”  
Kingsley narrowed her eyes at him. “I tried on five occasions to tell someone about the abuse. You know what that got me? Each arm broken twice and a broken leg. I've fractured my cheekbone. Do you know how hard, and how many times you have to repeatedly hit someone to fracture a cheekbone? Or, how about these?” She ripped up her sleeves to reveal cigarette burns. “Do these not permit wanting revenge?” She pulled her sleeves down, obviously disappointed in herself for her little outburst.  
John was taken aback, he'd never seen her like this. “The best revenge you could have given him was putting him away for life, and letting the other inmates do those things to him.”  
Kingsley smiled maliciously. “No. The best revenge I could have given him was watching him beg on his hands and knees. Begging me to forgive him and to save his miserable life. Did you know I had an older sister? She died giving birth to me. That's right. I'm the product of my father and my sister. At least she had the good sense to die and get away from him.”  
“You're a product of forceful incest?” Sherlock asked. “You need to check the babies for incest-passed genes.”  
“I already have. They're both fine.” She leaned forward and put her head in her hands, exhausted. “I've answered your questions. I'd like to take a moment to ask you a few of my own.”  
“Ask away.” Sherlock told her.  
Kingsley looked up at him. “Not you.” She turned to John. “You.”  
“What do you want to know?” John asked.  
“I obviously can't keep these children while in prison, not that I want to. I don't deserve to be a parent, and I don't want to be. I don't trust myself, as I've told you before. I want you to keep them.”  
“And if I agree to take them?” John held her gaze. She looked terrified that he'd say no.  
“There's only one condition. I get to name the girl.”  
John looked at her. It was such a minimal request. He figured it'd be something much worse. “Okay.”  
Kingsley pulled a file out from under the table. “I signed over all of my visitation rights. You will receive child support. You are named the sole parent of both of the children.” Her hands were shaking. “I never get to see them again, and you get to raise them and be happy.” With her jaw clenched, Kingsley turned her face toward table.  
“Why don't you want to see them?” John asked, grabbing her hand.  
“I don't them to see me, John. Not the other way around. I'm a bad influence and they're never even going to know my name.” She pulled her hand out of his, wrapping it around her stomach. “Annie. I want to name her Annie Catherine, after my mother.” She sighed heavily. “Don't ever tell them about me. Don't tell them my last name. Make up a fake one or tell them we shared last names, I don't care. Don't tell them about my side of the family. Tell them of how happy we were in Afghanistan, not England. Tell them I died in Afghanistan if you have to, just don't let them know who I really was. They don't deserve the shame.” She looked up at the two way glass. “I'm ready to head back to my cell now.”  
Kingsley stood up without giving John another look. She said goodbye and walked past them. John watched her chestnut curls bounce as she walked away from him. Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder and led him out of the prison. Before leaving, Lestrade told John he could be present when Kingsley went into labor.  
John and Sherlock returned to their flat. John reviewed the file Kingsley gave him, poring over every detail. He wanted to find something, anything in the file that seemed anything like a game. He figured Kingsley would have thrown in some clause that secretly let her steal the kids back from him. He didn't find anything, except for a note and envelope taped to the very last page.  
John,  
I'm not going to pretend that I'm sorry for what I've done, because I'm not. I'm happy I killed him, that he suffered. I am, however, sorry that you were thrown into the middle of this. I may be 'mad' but I know wrong from right, and I've done so much wrong in my life. I don't feel bad about any of it, except what I did to you. The only thing I can do to make up for the wrong I've done you is give you our children and hope that you love them more than our parents loved us. They say that everyone falls in love at least once in their lives, even 'loons', and I think you were my one and only, John. I thank you for that, for the times we had. I'm sorry if I hurt you and I'm sorry that you don't trust me anymore. But if you'll take my word for anything, take this. I love the life inside of me, and I don't want to give it up for anything. I have to, it's the only way to save them. I hope that this can be a peace offering between us. I'm not staying in this prison. I'm leaving so that I can give our kids the best. I've got some contacts at the school I went to, it's private but I'll cover it. I want the best for them and you, and I bid you a long, happy life.  
With as much love as one can muster,  
Kingsley O'Connor.

The paper smelled of vanilla and hazelnuts. There was a dark red lipstick mark next to her name. John opened the envelope to find a picture of Kingsley in her military uniform. There was another picture of her in civilian clothes, one of her graduating college and another of Kingsley's last sonogram. John shoved them all back into the envelope and threw it onto the table.  
How could she make him hate her so much, yet make him feel so sorry for her? John drank a cup of coffee, trying to clear his head. Kingsley made him into a damn fool. He did want the children, but he didn't want to look at two kids who looked just like her. He didn't want to think about her every time he looked at his children. He didn't want to lie about who their mother was. She was manipulative and mad, yet John couldn't look at her without missing the feel of her lying next to him. Pissed at himself, John threw the coffee cup at the wall.  
Sherlock came running into the sitting room, looking at John incredulously.  
“You alright?” Sherlock looked at him, startled by his outburst.  
“Why is it that I always pick people who mess with my feelings? Hmm? You.” John poked Sherlock in the chest. “You make me think of you as my best friend, then you fake your suicide, driving me back to Afghanistan. Then, she walks into my hospital a week after I arrive. All tan legs and brown eyes. She makes me fall in love with her, then it turns out she's a psychopath. But I still don't hate her, just like I didn't hate you for leaving me all alone. I-I can't hate her, just like I can't hate the kids. It's not their fault who she is. I don't think I'll be able to look at them without wondering if they'll be like her.” John collapsed into his chair, putting his hands in his hair.  
“You can't blame yourself for falling for her. She's a remarkable woman, I can tell. She loved working with the children in Afghanistan, just like she loved working with you. She genuinely cared for the children. She cares for the children she's carrying and she seems to honestly worry that they'll turn into her if she sticks around. Don't take it out on the children, John. I'm sorry for what I did to you. I thought it was for the best, obviously I was wrong. I'm sorry it's effected you so, I hope you can forgive me. Those children are going to need you to love them, John. Don't forget that no matter what, they'll always love you. Children love who ever loves them, and I know you'll love them, John.” Sherlock turned on his heel and walked back into his room.  
John watched his friend leave, mouth agape. Sherlock was right, of course. He was always right. John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, hoping to block out everything that was bothering him. It didn't work, of course, only gave him a headache.  
Four months later, four months of not hearing a peep from Kingsley. Besides getting sonograms, John hadn't heard from her four months. Then, he finally got the call. Kingsley was in labor.


End file.
